Quite a number of deserters were picked up. Benjamin Franklin had devised a shrewd scheme for encouraging desertions. Learning the brand of tobacco specially liked by the Hessians, he had offers concealed in packages of this tobacco, which was distributed where the Hessians would get them. These hired troops had no love for the cause for which they were fighting, and many of them had little for the tyranny with which they were treated when at home in Germany. When they read these offers, printed in German, of money and land, they were sorely tempted to change masters, especially if they did not happen to be of those who loved fighting for the privilege it gave them to loot and ravage.

How the country people, all the Americans, indeed, except the Tories, despised and dreaded the Hessian! In fact he was no more brutal than many of the British, but he was trained to loot and thus was held in disrepute. On several occasions he had bayoneted the American soldier after the latter had surrendered.

"Why didn't our men serve 'em a like turn at Trenton?" was a question some had asked.

Zeb well expressed the matter once when the subject was being discussed around the camp-fire.

"I reckon that job at Trenton was most complete. Thar's nothing about it to be ashamed of, an' everything to be proud of. If we'd butchered the pig-stickers when they were whinin' on their knees it wouldn't hev looked well in history."

"There comes a detachment of 'em now!" exclaimed Rodney, the following morning. He and Zeb were doing picket duty. The latter gave the call, and several Rangers ran up. A half mile down the road the Hessians came marching on in close order till they arrived at some farm buildings when they were seen to break ranks.

"Let 'em have it!" cried Zeb, bringing his long rifle to his shoulder.

Then, loading as he ran, he called, "Come on, boys, let's get to closer range."

Other Rangers, hearing the firing, came running after them. In doing this they not only obeyed orders, but most of them gratified their own desire to get into a skirmish with the enemy at every opportunity.

Soon the bullets were singing anything but a cheerful song about the ears of the Hessians, who began to reform their ranks and returned the fire. After several of them had fallen in their tracks, the remainder retreated, bearing off their dead and wounded, pursued by the Rangers clear to the enemy's lines, when they, too, were compelled by overwhelming numbers to retreat.

As they pa.s.sed the farm on the way back, "Do-as-much Bunster," a Pennsylvania Dutchman, exclaimed, "Dey vas not alretty till Christmas for roast pig to vait, I tink."

"Reckon your thinker is workin' this mornin'," was Zeb's reply as he turned aside to look over into a pen beside the road where a fine litter of white pigs lay cuddled about the old sow.

"You fellers hev earned one o' them beauties," said the farmer, coming out of his barn and proceeding to slaughter one of the innocents without evident compunction.

"Do as much for you zumtime," said Bunster, whereat all laughed. That was what the Dutchman always said when any one did him a favour. He was as good as his word, too, which not only gave him his nickname but made him one of the most popular men in his company.

He was both fat and jolly, as Dutchmen should be, but not always are.

His blue eyes twinkled with good humour and shrewdness, and his eagerness showed that he was fond of roast pig.

How good it tasted though cooked, as it had to be, under unfavourable conditions over a camp-fire, and without proper utensils. There was, however, a look of contentment on the faces of those who partook of the feast that afternoon, and sat around on the warm ground licking their fingers.

"Let's see," said Zeb, "Bunster and I and Rodney are off duty to-night."

"Yah, and I tink I zum sleep get."

"One of those Hesse-Ca.s.sel ruffians swaps even for one good American, and there's a lot of our boys rottin' in the prison hulks in New York harbour to-night."

"Which is one way of saying we should capture a few Hessians for a pastime; hey, Do-as-much Bunster?" and Rodney thrust a forefinger into Bunster's fat ribs. The Dutchman squealed and leaped to his feet, for he was so ticklish that one, wishing to see him squirm, only had to point a finger at him.

"That farmer is certain sure a good one, though he is too lazy to take his pigs in out of danger. I hate to see him lose 'em. Besides he has a big rick o' hay right nigh that pig pen an' it looked like a good place to sleep. What d'ye say, boys, if we tote ourselves down thar this evenin'?"

"Zum place to sleep, yah?"

"I'm not sleepy yet, but I am ready to go," replied Rodney, so they set out.

They crossed the fields, some of which were new mown and fragrant. The sun was setting after a hot day. The swallows skimmed over the field.

"Swallers flyin' low, sign o' rain," said Zeb.

"Needn't lay it on the swallows when the clouds are piling up as they are this evening. We'll want a roof to the hay rick before morning, I think," was Rodney's reply.

They found the farmer doing his ch.o.r.es. His smile was a trifle apprehensive as he said, "That pig tasted so good ye come back fer more?"

"We be no hogs. We reckoned as how the fellers as didn't git roast pig might come back and try it this evenin'."

"Hope ye don't intend fightin' round here. My wife Nancy is dretful nervous."

"My kind and tremulous friend, do ye want the pig-stickers ter git yer pigs? We 'lowed as how we might stay here an' save yer next winter's pork. 'Sposin' you explain it to Nancy. We'll not allow any one to hurt her, if we can help it."

This seemed to satisfy the farmer; but he took fresh alarm when Zeb went along to a two-wheeled ox-cart, piled high with hay and backed against the pen. As Zeb raised the tongue, and told Bunster to put a stick under it, the farmer called excitedly, "Look out! Ye'll tip it into the pig pen; that load is too heavy behind, anyhow."

"Hay mought be good fer some kind o' hogs," which enigmatic remark by Zeb called forth no response from the farmer, who bade them good night and went into the house.

"I'll stand guard the first part or we'll draw lots, as you wish,"

said Rodney.

It was decided to draw lots, but Rodney, drawing the shortest straw, had his wish to stand guard the first part of the night for, though tired, he was not sleepy.

His companions threw themselves down on the hay at the foot of the rick and soon, by their regular breathing, he knew they slept. Sleep was a luxury with the Rangers in those days of continuous scout duty.

Rodney's nerves were high strung and no sound escaped him. He heard the rustle of a toad in the gra.s.s at his feet. An occasional mosquito hummed about his ears. His mind wandered away to that little Indian village he had known. In his imagination he could hear the crooning song of the squaws about the camp-fires, the shrill cries of the whip-poor-will. He thought of the old Indian chief, whose savage hands had so often grasped the rifle the boy now held. Had Ahneota lived he doubtless would be encouraging the red men in aid of the British, and would not hesitate to torture women and children as well as men. How he hated the whites!

Hark! What was that sound? Surely the clink of the iron shoe of a horse on a stone in the road!

The boy waked his sleeping companions. They seized their rifles and all went nearer the road.

Out of the darkness misshapen objects could just be discerned, and the guttural voices of several Hessians could be heard. Then a light glimmered as one of the approaching party drew an old horn lantern from under his cloak. Two others, by aid of the light, clambered into the pen, leaving outside the one with the lantern and the fourth holding the horse.

The next moment a pig squealed. The vandals were sticking them with their bayonets.

"Follow me," whispered Zeb, running forward and tilting the cart tongue in the air, dumping the load of hay into the pen, and burying human and other hogs in the mire underneath.

"Surrender!" Zeb cried, thrusting the muzzle of his rifle under the nose of the fellow holding the lantern, while Rodney and Bunster disarmed the Hessian with the horse. Then Zeb quickly tied their hands behind their backs, and, telling Rodney to guard them and shoot them down if they moved hand or foot, he and Bunster turned their attention to the commotion in the pig pen.

From under the hay there issued grunts and squeals and German oaths.

Sorry looking hirelings were those two Hessians when they crawled out into the light. Wisps of hay clung to their well greased pigtail queues and their hated uniforms, blue coats and yellow waistcoats, were daubed with muck.

"Pa.s.s out yer guns, an' take this fork an' pitch out the hay," was Zeb's order, which the dazed prisoners attempted to obey, when the farmer, calling out the window, said, "I'll look out fer that."

"Better let him, Zeb," said Rodney. "If we stay here too long we may have more Hessians than we need."

"Good advice, ye townsman of the immortal Jefferson. Forward march."

[1] See "Marching with Morgan."

[2] The chief incident in "Marching with Morgan," in which Zeb and young Donald Lovell are the leading characters.